


Revelation

by syrupfactory



Series: Ineffably Ever After [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 31st century, Angel Wings, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley Has Long Hair (Good Omens), Drama & Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Far Future, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, M/M, Married Couple, Post-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Solarpunk, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Thirsty Priest OC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:07:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21527242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrupfactory/pseuds/syrupfactory
Summary: The year is 3021, and Aziraphale and Crowley have been married for a thousand years. Together, they manage the London Archive, a futuristic information hub that stands on the same block that one held a bookstore. An Anglican priest who visits regularly has a huge crush on Aziraphale, and Crowley is amused … until the priest grows bitter enough to make a very poor choice. As it turns out, envy is a bad look for a man of the cloth, and pissing off an angel is far worse.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffably Ever After [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1586422
Comments: 77
Kudos: 459





	1. The Angel

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a spin-off of the futuristic epilogue from [my previous trilogy](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1442455), but can be read as a stand-alone!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr post for this chapter [here](https://meowdejavu.tumblr.com/post/189239441123/revelation-aziraphalecrowley-rated-m)!

The year is 3021, the month is September, and the day is Thursday—but not for much longer. A certain pair of husbands are winding down from another day managing the London Archive, one of several large information access centers across Europe. The building is located where once an odd little bookshop stood, only instead of occupying the corner slot, it now spans the full block. 

Organized chronologically, it’s filled with massive digital databases containing information covering nearly all of human history—and who better to maintain it than two beings who were present for most (if only paying close attention to some)?

Aziraphale has taken a guest to his favorite lounge in the back—not unlike the one he kept in his old bookshop. He’s furnished it with plush sofas and antique bookshelves, still holding his personal collection of paper books, only available to a select few visitors. 

One such person is Father Thomas Malcolm, an Anglican priest who has become a regular researcher at the archive, and who rather fancies chatting with a certain blonde archivist. He _also_ rather fancies the blonde archivist, far more obviously than he realizes. 

“Shall I fetch us some tea, then, Father Malcolm?” Aziraphale is saying as the two of them enter the lounge. 

The quiet solitude is refreshing. 

“Oh, certainly,” Thomas says, promptly captivated by the bookshelves. “Wow. I had no idea you kept such a wide variety back here.”

“Ah yes, my private collection. Do feel free to poke around.”

“May I? How generous of you,” Thomas replies, overly flattered. 

After a while, the two of them take their places—Aziraphale in his favorite chair and Thomas on an adjacent sofa. They fall into easy conversation about old texts, and Aziraphale is certainly enjoying the company, but he’s all too aware of the priest’s growing fondness for him. Thomas must believe he’s found a rare kindred spirit, and Aziraphale empathizes, as they have much in common and can converse about religion and history without missing a beat. Surely, this can be a civil friendship despite a run-of-the-mill crush. 

“My gratitude for the drink, Mr. Fell,” Thomas says, setting aside his empty teacup. “And the company.”

“Oh, my pleasure.”

“Shall we continue this conversation over a meal, perhaps?”

He’s managed to speak the words casually, though he’s desperately hopeful, Aziraphale can feel.

“Oh, I do appreciate the invitation,” Aziraphale starts, gently, “and I’ve certainly enjoyed your company, as well. I’m afraid my husband and I have plans for the evening, though. Perhaps all three of us another time?” 

It feels like an odd way to deflect, but Azriaphale can’t be certain if Thomas is hoping he’s interested in an affair—or perhaps in an open marriage—and _perhaps all three of us_ feels like a way to satisfy all curiosities at once. Thomas takes a moment to process and blink, and Aziraphale trusts that the message is received as he detects a non-subtle tinge of disappointment. 

“Certainly,” he says with a too-friendly smile. “It would be lovely to dine with you both.”

As though on cue, Crowley appears in the doorway. He’s wearing his favorite kimono robe—sheer navy fabric embroidered with intricate gold constellations, a gift from Aziraphale a few months back. He’d seen it in a shop window and swooned, but he hadn’t expected it to fall into his husband’s regular rotation. Crowley looks stunning as ever, with his auburn curls falling over his shoulders and a simple sleeveless top and black trousers under the robe. 

“Oh, _Anthony_ , there you are,” Aziraphale says, standing and welcoming him in, a bit relieved for the interruption. “I was just speaking of you. Come and meet our guest, dear.”

Crowley glides over on heeled boots, robe fluttering a bit as he walks. Without even sparing a glance at Thomas, who is now radiating far too much envy for a man of the cloth, Crowley takes Aziraphale’s face in his hands and greets him with a kiss. 

Aziraphale’s cheeks flush at once at the boldness, knowing exactly what his husband is doing, and he has to suppress a happy giggle. Poor Thomas.

Crowley is glowing post-kiss. Aziraphale clears his throat. 

“As I was saying, this is Father Thomas Malcolm. We’ve had a most fascinating chat this evening.”

Crowley holds out his hand and then belatedly remembers to turn his head along with it. 

“Anthony Crowley.”

Thomas only shows the smallest surprise at Crowley’s eyes before he takes his hand. “A pleasure.”

There’s a lie if Aziraphale has ever heard one.

“Dear,” Aziraphale goes on, perhaps allowing his ego to relish this interaction a bit too much, “he’s invited us to supper sometime.”

Crowley hums and smiles with mock-cordiality. “Has he? _Splendid._ ”

He sounds so smugly sarcastic, it’s no wonder why Thomas’s envy has given way to blatant bitterness. Nevertheless, the three of them agree to meet for supper sometime in the following week, and Thomas makes his farewells. 

When he’s gone, Aziraphale very nearly pins his husband to a wall, kissing him with renewed fervor.

“You scoundrel,” he mutters, smirking. 

“Me?!” Crowley asks, feigning shock. “Not the _priest_ pursuing a married man?”

“Oh, he’s not _pursuing._ It’s just a harmless crush.”

Crowley squints. “Did he or did he not invite only you to supper the first time?”

“Heard all that, did you.”

“Might have waited for the opportune moment to make my entrance.”

“What am I going to do with you?” Aziraphale asks in a way that comes out more coy than sultry. 

Crowley looks him over with hungry eyes. “I’ve a few ideas.”

Aziraphale is fucking him from behind a few moments later—with Crowley bent over the same spot on the sofa where the priest was sitting. It’s not often that they do it this way, except in what Aziraphale calls “moments of intense spontaneity.” And well, the view is sort of nice. For a change. 

The fleeting idea of the kind, envious priest turning back in only to find them so quickly _occupied_ flashes through Aziraphale’s mind, making his face burn red hot, and he can’t decide if he’s mortified or further aroused at the thought. Maybe both.

“Ah, _fuck_ ,” Crowley mutters through his teeth as he comes across the sofa cushions—deliberately, Aziraphale is sure. 

His amusement is swiftly forgotten as he reaches his own peak. They’re both panting for a moment afterward while Crowley gets his trousers up, and then Aziraphale whirls him around to pull him to his lips again. 

He holds the kiss for a long time, and Crowley’s bracelets jangle as he wraps his arms around him. When Aziraphale pulls back, he finds his husband rosy-cheeked and happy, and he hums as he admires him. 

“Ah, I love you,” Aziraphale breathes.

“That’s good; we’re married,” Crowley says, bumping their noses together. “Love you, too.”

He turns as if to leave, and Aziraphale scoffs. 

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he says, gesturing with his expression toward the sofa.

Crowley shrugs, a devious smirk playing on his lips. “I think it looks nice.”

Azriaphale glares at him, fighting laughter, already looking forward to taking him to bed later. 

///

**_One Week Later_ **

Father Thomas Malcolm fixes an antique brooch to his evening jacket in preparation for supper—an intricate, beautiful little dragonfly dating all the way back to the mid-1900s. Taking in his form in his mirror—traditional white collar and combed hair perfectly in place—he feels Ezra will be certain to notice it and nods in satisfaction. 

With a glance at his holoclock, he confirms that it’s nearly time to set out for the restaurant. He has just one more item to secure: a small vial of holy water, which he slips inside the edge of his jacket sleeve—snug enough not to fall out by accident, but easy enough to retrieve with a flick of his wrist.

Thomas’s step-sister, Moira, is an occultist and his opposite in nearly every way, but he typically prefers her company to his other relatives. She, at least, doesn’t judge his faith as “archaic nonsense” or question his commitment to it—she has her own unwavering beliefs, and in that way, they understand each other. When he asked her to view the aura of one Anthony Crowley at the London Archive, she raised an eyebrow, but he could see straight away that she’d agree. He kept things vague, giving her no information whatsoever about Ezra Fell and only explaining that he’d had an “odd feeling” around Anthony. It felt petty, certainly, to dislike someone enough to send a witch after them, but he wasn’t lying—something about this man struck him as deeply strange. Still, he allowed that he was likely grasping at straws.

Until Moira sent word a few days later. Her message had been the last thing he’d expected to hear: According to her, Anthony was _not human_. She wasn’t able to get more specific, but she impressed upon him her certainty that this person was not a person at all—if he were evil, she could not say, for no witch in recent history had ever seen a _demon’s_ aura. 

Thomas’s ears had pricked up at the word, he had to admit. Just as he heard it, a theory formed in his mind: Perhaps this being had Ezra under some sort of mind-control, or had tricked him into thinking they loved each other. It was merely one theory, of course, and Thomas had come up with a plan to put it to the test. He’d find a way to expose Anthony to the holy water—which, historically, was always toxic to any Hell creature—and if he wasn’t a demon, no harm would come to him. But if it _did_ harm him and Ezra witnessed it, well, that could hardly be more damning. 

Thomas smiles and crosses himself before making his way out the door. 

His train from Oxford zips him into London in just under ten minutes, and he’s well on his way to the charming old restaurant Ezra has selected for their meal. The algae lamps are just starting to brighten in the early evening, creating a lovely sight against the rosy sunset. London is always most beautiful at this time of day, he muses, but the thought does little to calm his nerves. 

Outside the restaurant, he finds the two of them just arriving, as well. Ezra is as smartly dressed as usual, in his lovely cream jacket and vest. Anthony’s modern outfit could hardly be more in contrast and very nearly looks like a _parody_ of current runway fashions: Fiery hair swept to one side, he’s in a slender, asymmetrical black dress under a pointless “jacket” constructed of loose gold chains. Thomas prides himself on his extensive knowledge of cultural history, and therefore recognizes that the look would have been decidedly “feminine” several centuries ago, but in modern times, it’s a formal, gender-neutral look. And a gaudy one, at that. 

Truly, anyone who sees the pair of them _must_ wonder, Thomas rationalizes. 

As they take their seats at the table, Thomas can’t help but wish Ezra had been able to accept his invitation to join him without his husband—the thought is selfish, yes, but Thomas can’t help but wonder if Anthony keeps unusual tabs on Ezra’s company.

It would certainly be an interesting meal. 

“Tell me, Thomas,” Ezra says sweetly as they receive their drinks and appetizer. “If you do care to share. What inspired you to pursue priesthood?”

With anyone else, he might dread answering, but he’s glad Ezra has asked. 

“Oh, well,” he starts, clearing his throat. “From a young age, I was fascinated by historical and religious texts. Couldn’t get enough of them. I can’t really say where my faith came from, but the pursuit of knowledge was endless. And in religion I found messages about uniting and saving all humanity, and I just loved the tradition of it all. It feels like an important part of human culture to keep alive. I discovered that I had an ancestor in the twenty-second century who was also a priest, and it felt like a sign. And well, here I am.”

“Ah, a true calling,” Ezra remarks with his signature warm smile. “How wonderful.”

Still in stark contrast, Anthony sits coldly beside him, taking a sip of his— _God above_. Thomas’s polite smile slips a bit when he catches sight of Anthony’s hand. He’s had what young people would call a “sex manicure,” with long, pointed nails on all fingers _except_ the pointer and index, which are filed short, all gleaming glossy black. 

Thomas would never begrudge anyone enjoyment or celebration of sex—he’s _Anglican_ , after all—but such a flagrant display of it lacks class. He can’t help but feel a bit sad at the thought of dear, sweet Ezra passing evenings at home with this vain, snobbish creature... 

Anthony has noticed him staring and cocks an eyebrow. 

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Thomas says, slipping into an easy, polite smile, “what made you decide to change your eyes?”

Facial modifications are not uncommon, but the thought of having his irises rebuilt with synthetic threads of color is unnerving. Clearly not to someone so preoccupied with turning heads, however.

“What makes you think I changed them?” Anthony asks dryly. 

“Anthony,” Ezra chides, patting his husband’s arm. “Don’t tease him, dear. He’s just curious.”

Anthony gives Ezra an odd smile and then faces Thomas again, saying, “I like _snakes_.”

The words come out in the manner of a sarcastic child who has been coached to respond politely. 

“The color is natural,” Ezra goes on, still smiling warmly and rubbing Anthony’s shoulder. “Stunning, isn’t it?”

A globulb goes off over Thomas’s head. _Of course! Of course they’re natural. He’s probably not had a procedure at all._

“Indeed, quite lovely. That’s why I asked; I didn’t mean to pry.”

Swallowing the remainder of his wine—already—Anthony seems slightly surprised by the semi-apology. He glances at Thomas again, letting his yellow eyes linger. 

“Lovely dragonfly,” he says, once again with an odd insincerity to his tone. 

“Oh. Well, my gratitude. It’s vintage—mid 1900s.”

Anthony nods for a second, his brow furrowing and eyes abruptly unfocused, as though he’s a thousand kilometers away. 

“Fuck,” he says, suddenly, turning to his husband. “That’s over fifteen hundred years ago, isn’t it?”

Ezra gives him an amused look at touches his cheek. “You’re drinking too quickly, my dear.”

If Anthony Crowley is _not_ a demon, he is by far the strangest human being Thomas has ever encountered. He’s trying to work out when and how he’s going to try the holy water. In fact, he’s starting to second-guess the plan a bit—but no, he must pay mind to what Moira saw. Surely that, combined with the man’s appearance and strange behavior mean he’s hiding _something_. 

The server comes by and takes their meal orders—although Anthony requests only more wine and no food. 

“He’s fine,” Ezra reassures, apparently having noticed Thomas’s curious glance, “he doesn’t eat as much as I do, but he’s perfectly healthy, I assure you. And we both so love dining out. Don’t we?”

“Cheers,” Anthony says, raising his refilled glass. 

“How long have you two been married?” 

At that question, Ezra beams an absolutely radiant smile, and Anthony actually smiles alongside him. 

“We’ve actually celebrated a milestone anniversary just last year,” Ezra says. “Twenty years. Can you believe it? He surprised me with a private capsule on the Eye.”

“Ah, how lovely,” Thomas responds earnestly. “Married at the turn of the millennium, then?”

“Oh … yes, that’s right. A private ring exchange in the park. Very lovely day.”

Anthony takes Ezra’s hand and kisses it. The gesture appears genuine and affectionate, Thomas hates to admit. Then again, that may simply speak to how skilled a deceiver Anthony is.

He had toyed with the idea of waiting and trying the holy water another day; springing it on him at the archive would certainly be easy enough, but the point would be moot if Ezra wasn’t there to witness it. No, it has to be tonight.

The key step is catching him by surprise, of course. He’ll have to act so fast that Anthony has no time to react. Preferably when he’s already slightly distracted. The copious amounts of alcohol he’s consuming should certainly help. 

The opportunity comes mid-meal, when Ezra is telling an animated story about a curious incident at his grandfather’s antique bookshop, with Anthony facing him to listen. 

Seizing the moment, Thomas pretends to drop his knife and makes his best _how-foolish-of-me_ face before leaning down to “reach” for it. Just as he’d hoped, Ezra goes on with his story without pause, and while his arm is concealed beneath the table, Thomas slides the vial into his palm and works the cork out. 

Then, as swiftly as he can, he stands and upends the tiny bottle directly over Anthony’s arm. His heart is pounding, but truth be told, he’s relieved. He’s finally done it. He’ll know the truth.

Only, the water never touches Anthony. Because, somehow, in the space between his action and the drops landing, something has shielded him. 

Inexplicably, it looks like white feathers.

Thomas blinks and takes a step back in confusion, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing—white feathers can’t be right. And yet. Yes, indeed, there’s a full wing there before him, fully obscuring Anthony in his seat. 

It’s only when Ezra stands up straight that Thomas realizes: the wing belongs to him. And there are two of them, of course. Two white wings. 

But that would mean. 

“Are you alright, my love?” Ezra is asking softly. “Are you hurt?”

Thomas can’t see their faces, but he thinks he hears Anthony say _I'm fine_ , and it seems that Ezra dips down a bit before straightening again.

Just as he’s beginning to accept the presence of the wings, they’re gone. When Thomas sees Ezra’s face, he takes yet another step back—every hint of warmth has faded from him, and on a level Thomas would have previously found difficult to imagine, Ezra looks genuinely _furious_. 

A bit lost for words, Thomas shakes his head. “I— Ezra— You’re an—”

“Indeed. And you have just tried to harm my husband.”

Thomas expects some clever remark from Anthony about now, or a sly smile perhaps, but when he glances down, he finds him still seated and focused only on his husband, tightly clutching Ezra’s hand in both of his. 

“You— You knew!” Thomas cries, connecting the dots. “I didn’t _know_ holy water would be harmful to him, but you did! I didn’t think you knew. I thought… Well, bugger what I thought! You’re an angel! And he’s a—he’s from _Hell_! He doesn’t belong here!”

The words have no sooner left Thomas’s lips than he’s tumbling backwards onto his arse for no discernible reason. Ezra is towering over him, then, glowing eyes full of fury, and the restaurant lights overhead flicker. Thomas realizes that his hair has started to stand on end—as though in the presence of static electricity. 

“ _Aziraphale_ ,” comes Anthony’s voice, and Thomas has to repeat the word in his head a few times before he realizes it must be the angel’s true name. 

Anthony embraces him, whispering his name once more, and speaks softly—Thomas can only hear bits: “Love, don’t ... you’ll regret ... only a priest … he meant to save you ... see? Let him go. It’s alright ... It’s alright.”

At his husband’s words, Ezra’s stormy expression calms, and he wraps his arms around him, pulling him close and stroking his back. 

“Fortunately for you, my husband is more forgiving than I am,” Ezra says coolly. “Go. Don’t let me see you again.”

Thomas is frozen for a moment, trying and failing to process all he’s just seen, and then scrambles to his feet, making haste for the door. When he’s reached the threshold, he turns to look back and finds that the angel is still watching him over the demon’s shoulder. 

As he steps out into the London evening and makes his way back to the train, his hands are shaking and his mind is eerily silent. Like he’s forgotten how to think. 

When he reaches his flat, after a journey he cannot recall, three things are weighing heavily on him at once: He befriended an angel and then ruined that friendship. He was right about Anthony being a demon. He was _very_ wrong about everything else. 

///

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The restaurant drama in this chapter was inspired by [this amazing fanart](https://khiroptera.tumblr.com/post/187499872505/touch-his-demon-and-aziraphale-will-make-sure)! 
> 
> Stay tuned for three more chapters. :)


	2. The Demon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a bizarre incident in the city, Aziraphale and Crowley spend a quiet evening at their coastal cottage in the South Downs. Together, they decide that it’s a good time for Crowley to take a solo trip away from England to be safe. Back at the London Archive, a certain Anglican priest shows up to face Aziraphale again … but his motives are surprising.
> 
> Tumblr post for this chapter [here](https://meowdejavu.tumblr.com/post/189340587178/revelation-aziraphalecrowley-rated-m-chapter)!

“He’s gone,” Aziraphale says softly near Crowley’s ear, relief flooding in as his wrath dissipates. 

Crowley pulls back enough in the embrace to kiss him, and Aziraphale reciprocates with fervor. 

Afterward, Aziraphlae sighs. “I’m sorry, darling.”

“What for? You were brilliant. I’ve rarely seen you move so fast.”

“Ah, but I shouldn’t have humored him in the first place; he disliked you from the start. Shouldn’t have put you in this position at all.”

Crowley shakes his head. “No, listen. You didn’t know. We couldn’t have known he was _dangerous_. I knew he was _nervous_ , but I had no notion that—I would have stopped time, if I had noticed! At least you were paying attention.”

Aziraphale presses a sad kiss to his cheek.

“Come now, let’s sit and order a dessert, hmm?” Crowley tries. “We’re here, aren’t we?”

All other restaurant guests have resumed merrily dining, conveniently forgetting that anything out of the ordinary occurred this evening. 

“No," Aziraphale says. "I want to take you home.”

“I told you, I’m perfectly fine.”

“I’m not!” Aziraphale says, perhaps a little more loudly than he intended. “That was too close. He could have cost you your hand. Or worse.”

“Alright,” Crowley says, relenting and resting his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Home, then. Beach house?”

Aziraphale smiles and nods at that, and in a flash, they’re standing in their living room. 

Their South Downs condo, built on a cliff overlooking a quiet stretch of beach on the southernmost edge of England, is where they spend most of their leisure time. They first moved in some centuries earlier and have updated it here and there to suit their needs. The interior is largely modern, with one large window offering a panoramic view of the coast.

Crowley sheds his metal jacket and pulls Aziraphale into his arms with more ease, stroking his back in the quiet solitude, which is indeed a refreshing contrast to the previous gabble of the busy restaurant. They stand so for a while, just holding each other. 

After some time, Aziraphale leans back and looks at him, face bathed in moonlight and an adoring smile playing on his lips.

“Ah, you’re so lovely, my darling,” he says, as he often does. “Could I brush your hair?”

Crowley smiles and nods, happy that Aziraphale has calmed, and moves to sit in a nearby chair. A wide-toothed comb is already in Aziraphale’s hand and raking through Crowley’s long locks. He does love having it brushed, maybe even as much as Aziraphale loves brushing it. 

“I can’t work out what made him suspect you,” Aziraphale remarks, pulling the comb gently through Crowley’s curls in every which way. “He had that assault planned well in advance. But why?”

Crowley shrugs, sighing with bliss at the brushing. “Long history of priests sussing out demons, I suppose... Pretty good priest since he found the last one on Earth, eh?”

Aziraphale hums at that, unsatisfied. It is indeed rather strange that the priest made such a swift leap from romantic interest in Aziraphale to pouring _holy water_ on his husband.

“Maybe he was carrying it for some other reason and my evening look really pushed him over the edge,” Crowley says with a shrug, admiring his own nails.

“Nonsense. You looked wonderful.”

Crowley scoffs. “You _hate_ that jacket.”

“On the contrary, it’s grown on me. It has an elegant sparkle to it.”

“Right.”

After Aziraphale has brushed for a while, he finishes by running his fingertips along Crowley’s neck and shoulders, leaving Crowley feeling like putty in the chair. Aziraphale embraces him from behind, then, and presses what feels like a semi-sad kiss to Crowley’s temple. Crowley inwardly bristles at that, wants to say _I’m fine_ again, but after a thousand years of marriage, he knows better. Aziraphale needs to be needed; giving Crowley comfort is how he comforts himself. So, instead, Crowley covers Aziraphale’s hand with his own and turns to kiss him properly. 

Aziraphale’s kiss is so warm and passionate that Crowley expects to be whisked straight to bed, but abruptly, Aziraphale stops. He moves around the chair to face Crowley and drops to his knees, looking up at him with an expression Crowley can’t read. Wordlessly, Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand—the same hand that was nearly dissolved earlier—lifts it gently to his lips and presses a long kiss to his palm. 

At once, Crowley knows what he’s doing. It’s something Aziraphale has only done a handful of times in their years as husbands, and it’s been at least a century at this point. 

After the palm kiss, Aziraphale moves to press another, just as long, to Crowley’s forearm. He’ll continue in this way across his whole body, traversing the complete geography of his form and showing tender love to each expanse of flesh. He never speaks as he does it, moving silently now to Crowley’s bicep. It’s ritualistic and undeniably moving—at some point that Crowley can never predict or anticipate, he’ll find that tears have dripped from his eyes before Aziraphale is finished. He doesn’t fully understand _why_ it makes him come undone, but perhaps that’s simply what it means to be so worshiped by an angel. 

It says, Crowley thinks, a million things and one thing. _I love you. I love all of you. I am so grateful that I can show you that. Every part of you is precious to me._ And, perhaps also, Crowley muses as Aziraphale presses an especially tender kiss to his now-bare chest, _This is the last body you’ll ever have, so don’t be a fucking idiot with it, because that’s my heart in there._

As Aziraphale dips to trail kisses across his stomach, Crowley feels his cock stir—and he’s fully hard by the time Aziraphale’s lips touch his thighs. Aziraphale is undeterred and unsurprised by it, pressing one sensual kiss to the base of the shaft before moving on again. Crowley smiles at that, his head dipped back, and it’s then that he feels the wetness already on his cheeks. 

When Aziraphale has kissed each of his feet, top and bottom, he rises back up and eases himself into Crowley’s lap, still fully clothed, taking Crowley’s face in his hands and wiping away his tears with the pad of his thumb.

“How do you always do that?” Crowley asks, feeling a bit like he’s been broken open.

Aziraphale only smiles, a picture of perfect composure, and pulls him to his lips again. They move, together, over to the round daybed that faces their balcony, where they’re swiftly making love. Crowley likes to call it their _fuckpad_ , which always makes Aziraphale blush. But he’s never asked him _not_ to call it that. 

Afterward, Crowley is gazing out the window at nothing, idly running his fingers over Aziraphale’s back. He always relishes these moments when the room is quiet and still and dark and they’re perfectly alone. He could pass a decade like this and never be bored of it, he thinks. 

Aziraphale lifts his head from Crowley’s chest to turn and kiss him there. He’s been thinking. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, “maybe it would be good … well, you’re going to say I’m being overly cautious, I know.”

They’re looking each other in the eyes, now. Crowley brushes Aziraphale’s cheek. 

“Try me.”

Aziraphale sighs. “I’m thinking maybe you shouldn’t come into the archive for a few days,” he says with an apologetic shrug. “Just in case. In case he’s thinking of trying again.”

Crowley smirks. “After how frightening you were? I highly doubt it.”

Aziraphale smiles, but his brow is still furrowed. “Please? I don’t mean to lock you up here, of course. I just...”

Crowley takes his face in both hands and kisses him. “I’ll stay away for a while. Be interesting to see if he does come back, hmm?”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says, flooding their connection with relief.

“In fact, maybe I should just go to Stockholm early? I could _really_ get the fuck out of town.”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows, considering the idea. “Oh.”

A contact at the Swedish archive has invited them to visit and to help with some technological issues updating the metadata for their expanded music database, which is Crowley’s territory. The plan was to travel together a month from now, but… 

“You know, maybe you’re right,” Aziraphale says, nodding. “Maybe it’s the perfect time.”

Crowley doesn’t need to ask if he wants to join him, since Aziraphale can’t be torn away from their archive during school-group season. 

“Give us a chance to miss each other,” he adds, running a finger down Aziraphale’s nose.

That gets him a bashful smile. 

///

In the full glow of mid-morning sunlight, Aziraphale watches as Crowley toggles switches and keys in codes in preparation for flight in his private transport, housed in the small hangar attached to their condo. Aziraphale is hopelessly lost when it comes to the technology and has no idea what any single button does, but he can already see that Crowley has come alive with excitement at the prospect of his solo trip. Not many people own personal transports these days—relative to a handful of centuries ago, at least—but Crowley adores his. 

Their contact at the Stockholm archive responded promptly that they’d be delighted to receive him early. As much as Aziraphale had liked the idea of traveling together, he’s relieved that Crowley will be away from London for at least a few days. Hopefully that will be enough time to confirm that Father Thomas Malcolm has no more holy water up his sleeve. 

“Alright, all set,” Crowley says, standing from the pilot’s seat to face Aziraphale. “See you in a few days?”

Aziraphale smiles and nods. “Do call me if anything should—” 

“Yes, of course,” Crowley says, reaching out to stroke his cheek and then pulling him into a kiss. 

He’s taken his nails back down to an even short length, and Aziraphale can’t quite decide if he misses the more eye-catching style. 

“Mind how you go,” Aziraphale says, holding his husband in tight embrace. 

Crowley strokes his back. “Don’t have too much fun without me. Don’t smite any priests.”

Aziraphale laughs. “Love you, darling.”

“Love you, angel,” Crowley says with a final kiss farewell. 

Aziraphale retreats from the ship and the hangar and watches from the living room window as Crowley is airborne and then gone from sight in a flash. He’s been so proud over the last millennium to see how easily Crowley has taken to helping others, free from the standard expectations of a demon. Here he goes to assist at another archive without a second thought or a complaint. He’s always enjoyed spending time among people, and Aziraphale imagines that Crowley must find beautiful freedom in the ability to joyfully _give_. 

Aziraphale heaves a sigh, feeling that familiar pang that always comes with his heart being so far away from his body. Crowley is right, though: A little time to miss each other is always worth it in the end.

///

**_Four Days Later_ **

Aziraphale is leading a school group through the archive, running through his colorful explanations for the different areas and enjoying the way the children's eyes light up as they learn. The central lounge is always a crowd-pleaser, with its enormous reading area and tall, live tree at the center, brandishing bioluminescent leaves. While giving the group time to react to the room, he gaze wanders, and he spots a familiar figure hovering watching in the distance. Thomas Malcolm has returned, after all. 

“This is our main reading room,” Aziraphale says after the awed remarks have quieted. “The glowing tree behind me represents past, present, and future and the importance of keeping all three in our minds. It’s also a _wonderful_ spot for lunch; don’t you all agree?”

Pure, excited chaos follows, and he beams at their instructors as he makes his leave. 

He walks directly toward Thomas, which seems to catch the priest by surprise. 

“My apologies if I didn’t make myself clear before,” Aziraphale says before he can speak, “but you are no longer welcome here.”

Thomas holds up his hands. “You did. Make yourself clear. If you decide to strike me with lighting now, I deserve it, surely.”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows, giving him a chance to go on.

“It might have been easier for me to never come back, never show my face here. But I don’t believe in hiding from one’s mistakes. I won’t ask for forgiveness that I do not deserve. But I am … deeply ashamed of what I did, and very much grateful that you stopped me. I wanted you to know that.”

Well, this is an abrupt change of heart. Not what Aziraphale expected. 

“Never before in my life,” Thomas goes on, apparently eager to say as much as Aziraphale will hear, “have I deliberately acted in a way that I knew could harm another person. I completely misjudged him, both of you, and let myself be swayed by selfishness … by my attraction to you. But I know now that you’re an … well, that you must have that effect on so many of us! Who wouldn’t fall for an actual angel? But none of that excuses my actions. I do fully regret what I did and am in daily repentance for it.”

Aziraphale can feel his sincerity, can see that he’s trembling a bit at speaking the words, and his anger softens a bit. 

“What made you suspect him?” Aziraphale asks.

Thomas looks sorrowful. “I’ll be completely honest with you. From the start, I only thought he seemed a bit … well, strange. A relative of mine is a practicing witch, and she claims to be able to see people’s auras, so I asked her to … I asked her to visit the archive. She told me she thought he wasn’t human. After that, I latched onto this ridiculous theory that he’d fooled you into being with him. I thought if I could expose him, then you’d know the truth ... Horrible of me, I’m sorry.”

Thomas is palpably mortified by all of this, but Aziraphale can’t stop thinking that Crowley was correct about his motivation—Thomas was indeed trying to _rescue_ Aziraphale, in a wholly misguided way.

“Walk with me,” Aziraphale says, much to Thomas’s surprise. He leads him upstairs to the balcony that overlooks the tree, where they can find a bench and speak more privately. When they’ve taken their seats, adjacent to the small cafe there, Thomas hasn't spoken another word.

“We’ve been married for a thousand years,” Azirpahale says with a smile. “That was the recent anniversary we celebrated. And we waited far longer to be able to love each other in the way we wanted. The way we do now.”

Thomas absorbs that information and then nods sadly, his gaze falling to the floor. 

“Anthony Crowley is the most courageous, passionate, wonderful person I’ve ever known. And he’s a demon, yes. A demon who defied Hell to save the world. To stop armageddon. So that we could be sitting here now, having this conversation.”

Thomas looks stunned at that. “Is he here, by chance? I hoped to apologize to him properly. If he’d see me.”

Aziraphale turns that request over in his mind. “He’s away for a while, but if you’d like to compose a message, I’ll deliver it. It’s up to him if he reads, of course.”

Thomas nods. “I’ll do it.”

His earnestness is, admittedly, a bit endearing.

“I hope you don’t mind my saying so,” Thomas says, “but I’m genuinely very glad we met. I realize I’ve ruined our chance at lasting friendship, but I’ve greatly enjoyed spending time with you, and … well, before meeting you, I was struggling with my faith. Quite often. But our conversations lit a fire in me, which … Well, that makes sense, doesn’t it? I only wish I could have found out who you truly are in far better circumstances.”

“I’m glad to have helped you, Thomas. You made a grave error, but you’re a good priest. You did find the only angel and demon on earth, after all.”

For the first time in their chat, Thomas smiles. “Thank you. Thank you for saying that ... May I ask? How did you two meet? Originally, I mean.”

At that, Aziraphale can’t fight his smile. “Oh ... I think you’re going to _like_ this story.”

///


	3. The Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While assisting with the music database at the Stockholm Archive, Crowley feels something he hasn’t felt in a millennium: A tingle down his spine, like something from Hell is nearby. Aziraphale is certain they’ll sort out the cause, but Crowley can’t shake a sense of unease. To find the answer, the two of them need only look back at where they started: A garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr post for this chapter [here](https://meowdejavu.tumblr.com/post/189443453763/revelation-aziraphalecrowley-rated-m-chapter)! :)

**_Stockholm_ **

Four days into his trip, Crowley is pleasantly surprised by how much he’s enjoying Stockholm. The city has changed drastically in the last few centuries—far more drastically than London—and he finds it a bit surreal to pass by building after building all covered in greenery and accented with stained glass. Where London adopted the more subdued algae lamps, Scandinavia has really gone all-in on the plant-based bioluminescence at night. Leaving the archive each evening meant stepping into a glowing forest of a city. 

On this particular evening, though, he’s just passing the archive gardens when something stops him in his tracks—an odd feeling, of sorts. A moment later, a harsh tingle zips down his spine and leaves the nape of his neck buzzing. 

It’s unmistakable and too strong to ignore. It’s a feeling he hasn’t felt in a thousand years. It’s the feeling that someone—or something—from Hell is nearby. He half-expects to hear his name shouted angrily, footsteps approaching him, or a squad of demons to appear. 

But that’s impossible, he reasons. He and Aziraphale saw to that; a thousand years ago they looked down on the Earth from space and, together, poured their united love around it like a glowing shield to protect all life—shutting out both Heaven and Hell, all angels and demons included. Ever since then, they’ve been free to live out their lives. They’ve been safe. They’ve been home.

And until now, he hasn’t had any cause to doubt that they could live this way forever. 

Glancing around cautiously, he takes in his surroundings. Nothing seems out of the ordinary in the lovely glow of evening; people are walking with sacks of groceries, families with children are buying sweets, a few workers are unloading a supply vehicle beside the garden. No one is paying him any mind. 

But the feeling is there, unsubsiding. There’s only one place to go. 

///

**_South Downs_ **

Aziraphale is nestled into the cushioned nook of his study, staring out at the sunset through a rain-speckled window. The half-finished diary entry in his lap is no longer holding his attention. He wonders, idly, how much longer the project at the Stockholm archive will keep Crowley.

Just as Aziraphale is swallowing a sip of cocoa, his husband appears in the room as if materializing from his thoughts. Back by sudden teleportation without his ship. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale says, standing. “Is everything alright?”

Rather than answering, Crowley pulls him into a swift embrace, and with the physical contact, Aziraphale finds that Crowley’s flow of love is warped with fear. 

“Oh, darling, what is it?”

Crowley doesn’t answer, instead just holding him tightly. Aziraphale hasn’t felt him so shaken in ages. He stands silently, stroking his back—Crowley’s scent is so, so nice, and it’s impossible not to be elated that he’s home. 

When Crowley finally eases his hold, he kisses him for a long time. Afterward, he sighs and drops to the window bench, still not speaking. 

Aziraphale moves to sit beside him, slipping an arm around Crowley’s waist and waiting.

“I felt something I haven’t felt in a very long time,” Crowley finally says, voice oddly small. “It felt like … it felt like something from Hell was nearby.”

Aziraphale blinks, starting to shake his head and then stopping himself. That can’t be possible. But Crowley knows that, and he doesn’t need to hear an argument against what he felt. 

“What does that feel like?” Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley looks thoughtful and then drums his fingers on the back of Aziraphale’s neck. “A harsh prickle here, anchored all the way down your spine... I never expected to feel it again. I don’t know how to explain it. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.”

“Well, I’m glad you came back to me straight away,” Aziraphale replies, pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

“I was thinking ... perhaps you could return with me.”

“Oh, of course I’m coming with you! I’m not leaving you alone until we sort it out. And we _will_ sort it out. Whatever it is.”

Crowley rests his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I missed you.”

Aziraphale smiles, turning and pulling him into a proper embrace. “Oh, good. I missed you quite pathetically, I’m afraid.”

Crowley kisses him again, and this time they don’t stop—in a flash, they’re in bed with their clothes vanished. Aziraphale holds him tightly, whining to have their bodies together again. Normally, their I missed you sex is all happy urgency, but this time, there’s an element of primal need. _You’re safe_ , Aziraphale hopes to communicate through touch, through each kiss and caress. _You’re loved. You’re mine._

After they’ve made love, Crowley is lying against Aziraphale’s chest, and his fear from before has only slightly receded. Aziraphale runs his fingers through Crowley’s long, auburn curls, feeling him sigh in pleasure. 

“Anything noteworthy here while I was out?”

“Actually,” Aziraphale says, “Thomas did come back.”

“Oh,” Crowley replies, sounding surprised. 

“He came to apologize. He was sincerely remorseful. He left a letter for you, though I gave no guarantee that you would read it.”

Crowley hums. “Let’s see it, then.”

Aziraphale wasn’t expecting him to accept right away, but he figures maybe it’s a nice distraction after an odd day. He fetches Crowley’s glasses from the nightstand. 

“I added it to your queue, just in case.”

Crowley rolls onto his back and slips on the glasses, which activate instantly and allow him to select a file with a series of blinks … or something. More modern tech that Aziraphale hasn’t bothered to learn. 

“Well,” Crowley remarks, apparently reading, “remorseful indeed. Wait … what did you tell him about me?”

“Ohh,” Azirahaple says, fidgeting with the trim on the bed sheet, “erm. Everything.”

Crowley laughs at that. “I see.”

When he’s finished, Crowley removes the glasses and raises up on his elbow to face Aziraphale. “Well, there you have it. You can go on being friends.”

“What?” Aziraphale scoffs. “Absolutely not.”

“Why? You _like_ him. And now you have no secrets.”

Aziraphale glances down again. “I liked him before.”

“It’s a good letter.”

“But,” Aziraphale whines, letting his head drop to rest against Crowley’s chest. “How could I entertain friendship with someone who tried to hurt you?”

“You could _forgive_ him,” Crowley says somewhat pointedly.

Aziraphale scoffs again, mostly because he knows Crowley is right. 

“Would you forgive someone who tried to harm me?” Aziraphale asks, sitting up again.

“No,” Crowley says easily. “But you’re better than I am.”

Aziraphale gives him a look. There isn’t time to unpack all of that.

“Look, it’s up to you, of course,” Crowley goes on. “If you don’t want him around, that’s your choice. But don’t frame it like you’re defending my honor, alright? I’m fine. I’m not asking you to cut him out.”

Aziraphale sighs. “Right, well, I have some thinking to do in that regard, I suppose. But there are more pressing matters at hand, yes?”

///

**_Stockholm_ **

The two of them pop over to Stockholm in the wee hours of the morning. Crowley leads the way to the same spot where he left, and Aziraphale is at once marveling at the scenery. The hustle and bustle of evening foot traffic is long gone at this time of night, leaving them standing in a quiet solitude on the road.

The feeling from earlier is also gone. 

“I was right here,” Crowley says, shaking his head. “But I don’t feel it anymore.”

“Well, then we know the source of it is not stationary,” Aziraphale says optimistically. 

Crowley sighs. “Maybe I’m just going mad.”

He tries to punctuate that statement with a half-hearted laugh, but only a puff of air comes out. Aziraphale takes his hand. 

“You’re not. Whatever you felt was real and has a real explanation, and we’ll sort out what it is.”

Crowley nods. Uncertainty makes him itchy. 

The two of them take a night stroll around a nearby park to pass the time before sunrise, and the scenery and company make for a lovely distraction. Having Aziraphale beside him, arms linked, always makes Crowley feel like everything will be alright and the two of them could take on the universe together. Not that he’d ever say something so sappy out loud. Aziraphale can surely feel the shift in him, anyway. 

When morning comes, they venture back to the archive and Crowley explains Aziraphale’s presence by saying that his husband took a morning flight in, after all. 

Crowley introduces Aziraphale to Lisbeth, the young archivist he’s been working with most closely. She has jet-black hair styled in an asymmetrical modern way, yet she prefers somewhat anachronistic clothing—today she’s donned a corseted dress that makes her look a bit like a Renaissance peasant, which Aziraphale is probably charmed by. 

For her part, Lisbeth seems a bit unsure of Aziraphale, like a cat sussing out an unfamiliar visitor. But as Crowley settles in to get back to work, he hears the two of them laugh together and smiles to himself. No one worthwhile could dislike Aziraphale for long.

///

Lisbeth seems to intuit that Aziraphale doesn't share his husband's interest in the technical side of things, because they've only been conversing for a few minutes when she offers to give him a tour of their special collections. 

“Well…” he starts, sparing a glance at his husband beside them. 

“Go on,” Crowley says with a knowing smile. "I've got all this under control."

Aziraphale touches Crowley's shoulder and then follows the young woman up to the next level. Their expansive collection of vintage physical copies is enough to make him weak at the knees, and the two of them fall into easy conversation about literature. 

“I hope you don’t mind me saying this,” she says with a touch of amusement. “But I find you quite surprising.”

“How so?”

“Well, meeting only your husband, I had no idea what to expect. And the two of you are so … different. It’s like speaking to his opposite, in some ways.”

Aziraphale laughs, inwardly charmed by how she radiates warmth when speaking of Crowley.

“I’ve heard that a couple times.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen our gardens?” she says, swiftly changing the subject. 

“I have not, but I’d be delighted!”

The two of them venture back downstairs and out into the vast gardens neighboring the archive—the area is stunning in the light of day, with so many crop towers elegantly arranged in spiraling patterns. Aziraphale never expected that _gardens_ would become a feature that so frequently struck him as starkly futuristic, but it’s a welcome surprise. Humans are living in closer harmony with the Earth than ever before. 

As they pass through the different regions, following the winding stone path created for visitors, Lisbeth proudly describes the wide variety of produce the archive was able to maintain, distribute, and use in the restaurant on the top floor. Aziraphale finds himself inspired and wanting to add garden space to the London archive, so lost in the idea that he almost misses something else she’s saying.

“Sorry, what was that?” he asked. “A pest problem?”

“Ah, yes. We’ve had trouble with a couple areas specifically. But just yesterday we received a shipment of a new synthetic sulphur that is scentless to humans but proven to reduce the harmful insect population by over ninety eight percent.”

Aziraphale is intrigued. “Synthetic sulphur? Is it here now? What does that look like?”

She leans down and takes up a glistening white rock from the bed around a tower—one of thousands of identical rocks. 

“This is it, right here and all around. Hold it! It’s indistinguishable from any simple rock, as you’ll see.”

Indeed, the stone is unremarkable in his hands, save for being somewhat pretty. He never would have identified it as sulphur without the common coloring or odor. 

“How fascinating,” Aziraphale mutters, gears turning in his mind. “Has my husband seen this, by chance?”

Lisbeth blinks. “No, I don’t believe so. The stones only just arrived last night, as I mentioned. The two of you are welcome to visit anytime, of course.”

“Wonderful,” he says, forcing a smile and replacing the rock. “I do appreciate your tour.”

It takes him a while longer to make a graceful exit, but Lisbeth becomes preoccupied with a visitor, and Aziraphale pops directly back up to Crowley. He’s still working in the same spot—thankfully, alone.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale starts, speaking in a hushed tone and slipping into the seat beside him.

“Good LORD!” Crowley cries with a little jump. “I didn’t know you’d come back!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Aziraphale says, fighting laughter and rubbing his husband’s shoulder. 

“You can’t sneak up on me when I’m concentrating.”

“I know. But, Crowley! You haven’t been round the gardens here, have you? Actually inside, not just passing by?”

“No, I haven’t. Why? Why are you whispering?”

“I think … I’m not certain, mind you, but I may have discovered the source of your feeling. Possibly.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows. “In the gardens? What, is there a hellfire centerpiece?”

“As of yesterday, apparently they are using _synthetic sulphur_ as a pest repellent. Totally scentless to humans. And … myself, as well, it seems.”

Crowley sighs, looking a bit skeptical. “Alright. I’m nearly at a stopping point here. We’ll go that way when we leave, yeah?”

Aziraphale nods and rubs his shoulder again, cautiously hopeful.

///

When Crowley is finished for the day, he follows Aziraphale out to the gardens—Aziraphale is clearly eager to go, but Crowley is … less than optimistic about there being a connection between _pest control_ and his Hell senses tingling. 

If he’s honest, maybe he’s really just afraid to hope.

But when they step through the passage that leads from the archive into the domed gardens, a sharp tingle shoots down his spine—the placebo effect, perhaps? But no, it’s getting stronger, and then when they’ve entered it’s so strong as to be maddening—it feels like his whole body is crawling with ants. 

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, glancing around. “Where is—” 

“It’s this!” Aziraphale says, taking up one of the thousands of white stones that line the gardens and holding it out to him. “Do you feel it now?”

Crowley can only nod and take the rock into his hands. Synthetic sulphur? Really? After all this time? It has been a while since he’s encountered sulphur in any form, certainly, but he never would have thought that it would activate his … well, Hell allergy. 

Abruptly, he’s laughing. Aziraphale gives him a look. Crowley lets the rock tumble back into the rest, but he can’t seem to stop his laughter. 

“Fucking,” he weezes, “fucking _garden stones_.”

He doubles over and has to put his hands on his thighs to steady himself. Shortly, he feels Aziraphale rubbing his back, maybe laughing a little alongside him. 

“Well,” he says, heaving a sigh and righting himself, the fit over. “There you have it. Sorry for dragging you out here. I guess you can go on home after all.”

Aziraphale gives him a look and takes his hand. 

“Crowley. I’m not going anywhere, my love.”

Belatedly, it dawns on Crowley that what he feels more than anything—far more than amusement—is relief, and Aziraphale understands that, of course. He pulls him into his arms, and they stand there for a moment, his skin still buzzing. 

“I suppose you’d like to get out of here,” Aziraphale remarks softly. 

“It’s not so bad, actually, now that I know it’s harmless…” Crowley observes, pulling back to look his husband in the eye. “But, yes. Let’s go.”

Arms linked, they take their leave and make their way back to Crowley’s rented flat. With the weight of uncertainty lifted from his shoulders and the tingling subsided, walking through the glowing streets with Aziraphale feels invigorating. Crowley can’t help but point out the types of plants they’re passing, explaining their genus and origin and how they’ve been genetically strengthened to survive in the northern climate. Aziraphale just listens, giving Crowley a fond nod or squeezing his arm at times. 

They fall into bed with more urgency than Crowley anticipated, but once they’ve begun, his hunger is ferocious. When they make love like this—all heated passion and closeness and no end in sight—Crowley is always reminded of their first years as lovers, unable to get enough of each other after waiting so long. 

As they lie in the quiet darkness afterward, Crowley is deeply grateful for his husband’s presence, both in a general sense and in the current moment. He’d hardly have wanted to be alone right now. 

“Would you brush my hair, love?” Crowley asks, turning just in time to see Aziraphale’s face light up. 

“Of course, dear!” 

A comb finds Crowley’s head a short while later, as he’s seated cross legged on the bed with Aziraphale standing behind him. He gladly loses himself to the feeling, letting his mind go blank. Aziraphale brushes for a while and then switches to his fingers, braiding Crowley’s hair back and then letting it loose and brushing again, over and over. 

Later, when Crowley has lost track of time, Aziraphale leans forward to embrace him and plants a kiss on his neck. 

“Thank you,” Crowley says. “You can leave that one, if you like.”

“It looks lovely,” Aziraphale agrees, admiring his own work on the French braid.

Crowley turns to face him, unfolding his legs and standing from the bed. 

“Thank you,” he says again, pulling Aziraphale into his arms. 

Aziraphale happily returns the embrace. 

///

The next morning at the Stockholm Archive, Crowley walks Lisbeth and her team through a demonstration of the newly organized music database, which gets a resoundingly positive reception. Aziraphale watches nearby, as well, perhaps a bit too proudly. It was time-consuming, sure, but it wasn’t _difficult_ work. 

Afterward, the group surprises him with a farewell reception on the terrace level balcony—Crowley takes a coffee, while Aziraphale can’t resist the sweets.

“I must say, your hair looks lovely that way,” Lisbeth remarks while they’re standing apart from the rest. 

“Oh, th— My gratitude. That’s my husband’s work.”

She nods, and then her expression shifts in an odd way. 

“I saw the two of you in the garden last night. I almost came over, but it looked like I might be interrupting. I hope everything was alright.”

“Oh,” Crowley starts and stops, deciding how to satisfy the wave of curiosity pouring out of her. “As it turns out, I had an odd reaction to your new pest control that I originally mistook as a symptom of a past illness… A false alarm, of course.”

Lisbeth’s expression and emotions are overwhelmed with sorrow.

“I’m so terribly sorry. I should have mentioned it. It didn’t even occur to me that it could cause a reaction.”

Crowley shakes his head, waving his free hand dismissively. “No, no. You couldn’t have known. It’s nothing, I assure you. A tiny hiccup in a lovely trip.”

At that, her smile and warmth are restored. “I’m glad you enjoyed your time here. I do hope we’ll see you again.”

He nods. “Or maybe you could visit London.”

“I’m sure I would enjoy that,” she agrees, a bit overly flattered.

Just then, Aziraphale blessedly appears beside him. Lisbeth makes a graceful exit, and Aziraphale thanks her profusely for the refreshments and hospitality.

“Nicely said about the past illness,” he says softly when she’s gone. 

“You heard all that, then?” Crowley asks. 

“Mm,” Aziraphale nods. “She fancies you quite a lot.”

“Fortunately, she has the good sense to keep it to herself,” Crowley says under his breath.

“Ah, I find it endearing,” Aziraphale says with a knowing smile. “Good taste.”

“You would.”

The two of them make their final goodbyes and make their way to the hangar, where they climb into Crowley’s ship for the flight back to England.

As he pilots, Crowley’s mind is also adrift, preoccupied with all that’s happened. With fucking synthetic sulphur and angry priests and all. No matter how much time passes, nor how much good he does, it seems he’ll never lose his inherent connection to Hell.

///

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hair-braiding scene in this chapter was very much inspired by [this amazing comic](https://gingerhaole.tumblr.com/post/186837097042/one-soft-demon-gets-the-extra-tlc-he-so-richly)!
> 
> The fourth and final chapter will go up on Friday. :)


	4. The Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After multiple odd encounters, Crowley is feeling the weight of his demon status more than usual. Aziraphale reminds him that if he hadn’t fallen, nothing about their lives would be possible, and that he wouldn’t change a thing. Still feeling introspective, Crowley goes out for a morning walk and ends up in the last place he expected: A church. With the help of a friend, he makes a stunning discovery … but he really should have told his husband where he was going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone enjoys the final chapter!! Thanks for reading. <3
> 
> Tumblr post for this chapter [here](https://meowdejavu.tumblr.com/post/189522177473/revelation-aziraphalecrowley-rated-m-chapter)!

As they land back at their cottage, Aziraphale has the sense that a weariness of some sort has passed over Crowley—he’s been largely silent for the flight. 

They exit the vehicle and make their way inside, afternoon sun spilling into the lounge area. It’s nice to be back, to have the little trip behind them, and to have so easily found the source of Crowley’s strange feeling. 

“I think I’ll be on the porch for a while,” Crowley mumbles, pulling off his boots.

“I thought you might lie out,” Aziraphale says with a nod. “Nice day for it.”

While Crowley goes to enjoy the sunlight, Aziraphale takes to his study and reads for some time, each falling into their natural routine. 

Some hours pass, and the bright sky has given way to a colorful sunset, the house still quiet.

Aziraphale goes, as he often does, out to the patio to find his husband dozing, dropping to sit next to him and rubbing his shoulder. Crowley stirs and Aziraphale offers him a glass of water, which he nods and takes. After a few sips, he sets it aside, and then reclines again and smiles. 

“Hi,” he says, a loose lock of red hair partly obscuring his sleepy eyes.

“Care for some company?”

“Of course.”

Crowley scoots over and Aziraphale curls into his arms, kissing him. They lie quietly for a while, falling into yet another new habit of their lives here. The air has grown crisp in the evening and the breeze carries that lovely salty ocean scent that never gets old. 

Aziraphale nuzzles his husband's neck and kisses him there, hearing a little sigh afterward.

“Strange question,” Crowley starts.

“Mhmm?”

“Do I smell evil to you?”

Aziraphale snaps back to look at him. “ _What_?”

“My scent. It’s noticeably ... demonic, yes?”

Aziraphale blinks. “You ... don’t smell like anything, or anyone, other than yourself. Your scent is completely unique.”

“That’s not the question,” Crowley says, looking blankly down at Aziraphale’s shirt.

“In the sense that neither a human nor an angel could smell like you, I suppose,” Aziraphale allows. “But I’d never describe your scent as evil.”

Crowley nods at that, still looking down.

“Why are you asking, hmm?” Aziraphale tries again, tucking strands of hair behind Crowley’s ear. “What’s on your mind, darling?”

“Just ... thinking. About how I can’t ever walk away from my true nature, no matter how much I pretend.”

“Pretend? Pretend what?”

“That I’m not literally damned. Evil. From Hell. Regardless of how much we both want to forget.”

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale says, sitting up now. “I have no interest in _forgetting_ our past. And I love you just as you are. I had no idea this was weighing on you.”

Still reclined, Crowley shifts to his back and gives him a look. “You were ... you were rather shaken after that holy water almost touched me. Because it reminded you?”

The way he asks it so matter-of-factly like he’s settled on it being true has Aziraphale’s alarm bells going off. 

“No!” he says. “That’s not remotely why. I reacted that way because he came so close to harming you. What if that water had done more damage than I could heal? I can’t even think of it.”

Crowley doesn’t respond. 

“Crowley...” Aziraphale starts and stops, shaking his head. “If I’ve ever given you the impression that I’d change anything—about you, about our past—that was never my intention. Do you think we could have ended up where we are now if we _weren’t_ an angel and a demon?” 

“I know,” Crowley mutters, rubbing his hands over his face. 

Aziraphale looks him over. “Do you?”

Crowley meets his gaze, then. “We were meant to save the world together.”

Aziraphale nods. “ _And_ in order for that to happen, for things to play out as they did. For us to meet and become friends and have our arrangement and meet in secret, one of us _had_ to be fallen.”

He pauses for a moment, reclining beside his husband again and stroking his shoulder. 

“And it had to be you, Crowley,” Aziraphale goes on, softer than before. “Because you’re stronger than I am. Braver than I am. _Better_ than I am.”

Crowley looks skeptical at that, but Aziraphale isn’t finished. 

“You fell, and you still wanted to do good. You still wanted to stop suffering wherever you saw it. You wanted to save the world. And you had to convince me to try. _That’s_ your true nature. Do you think I could have ever done any of it without you? It _had_ to be you, my love... Maybe another _angel_ could have been assigned to the eastern gate, but—”

“No,” Crowley says, finally speaking. “Shut up. It couldn’t have been anyone but you. You know that.”

Aziraphale smiles in reply and then goes on.

“Believing in fate doesn’t mean that I don’t feel deeply fortunate to be here with you. Every day, I’m grateful. To love you. To be loved by you. My beautiful, perfect husband. I wouldn’t change a single thing. You must know I mean that.”

Crowley pulls him into a kiss and then settles into his arms, head on Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale holds him, enveloping him in love, until the sky is dark and sparkling with stars. When the night breeze grows cool, they venture inside, falling wordlessly into bed. 

///

Crowley awakens to find a whisper of early sunlight peeking through the clouds. Aziraphale is asleep beside him in bed—he still doesn’t make a consistent habit of sleeping, but he’ll drift off now and then when they lie together for a while. And this time he’s really out, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, face content and peaceful. 

On another morning, Crowley might curl into him and rest there, listening to his heartbeat for a while. But he’s too restless now. 

He eases out of bed and manages to dress, pulling on trousers and plain jacket, without waking him. It’s not like Crowley to vanish like this, but it’s early, and he’ll come back with muffins or something for breakfast, he reasons. 

He pops directly into the heart of London, where he finds the dawn air crisp and dewy. Walking with his hands in his pockets, the wind catches the strands of hair that have come loose from his French braid. Thinking about anything except for where he’s going, he lets his legs carry him down long-familiar streets populated by colorful buildings far newer than the pathways. 

Happiness and contentment come so easily to Aziraphale these days. When he says he wouldn’t change anything, Crowley knows he means it with every fiber of his being. And Crowley is happy, too. Happier than he’s ever been. So, then, why is he still preoccupied with his origins?

He’s reached St. Paul’s Cathedral when the sun has fully risen. There aren’t as many churches in the city now, but this is one of the historic ones that still stands. As he’s turning to head back, to snag a surprise breakfast for his husband hopefully before he’s been awake long enough to start wondering, he pauses to see something on the ground by his foot. A string of wooden beads with a cross attached. 

It’s a fully intact rosary, casting a charming little shadow. It’s been so long since he’s seen one. 

It feels almost cathartic, bending down and reaching for it. No more hiding. No more fear. Only acceptance. It will burn a bit, he’ll let it fall back to the ground, and he’ll stop trying to forget what he is. 

Only, the wooden beads feel like beads in his hand. 

Crowley blinks, taking it into a proper grasp and straightening up. Perhaps the chain isn’t affecting him? With more than a little hesitation, he takes the crucifix itself into his palm. 

Nothing. 

It’s like holding any other object. But how? This rosary could be defective, he reasons. Deconsecrated or sacrilegious, somehow. 

Turning again to look at the church, he sees that the front door has now been propped open, welcoming visitors. He has to know. 

Leaving the rosary behind, he hurries inside, fully forgetting anything else he’d intended to do this morning. The quiet, dimly lit chapel smells of incense and fresh flowers. To his feet, the floor feels like any other floor. 

So, that’s new. 

“Anthony?” comes a familiar voice.

Crowley turns to find Father Thomas Malcolm giving him a curious look. He raises his hands and maintains a wide distance. 

“I mean you no harm, I swear.”

“I know,” Crowley says, shrugging. “I read your letter.”

“Oh,” Thomas says, posture relaxing and grateful relief pouring out of him. “I appreciate that.”

Crowley steps closer to him, an idea occurring to him—Thomas could be helpful.

“In all fairness to you, I didn’t give you many reasons to like me.”

Thomas smiles. “Well... In fairness to you, you knew full well that I had romantic interest in your husband.”

“Ahh,” Crowley says dismissively, shaking his head. “I find that endearing.”

Thomas smiles wider. “I must say, this is very different than the conversation I had with him.”

Crowley nods. “I’m sure. He’s ... well, he’s protective. I’m well aware of how lucky I am.”

Thomas just regards him for a moment. “Is there ... something I can help you with?”

“Actually, yes. Do you have a bible? A paper copy?”

“Well, yes. In the parish library,” Thomas says, taking a step closer and lowering his voice. “Only ... is that _safe_ for you?”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to figure out. Standing here should have my feet burning, and yet.”

“Hmm,” Thomas says, intrigued. And then he hesitates. “Forgive me for asking, but does your husband know you’re here?”

Crowley swallows. “‘Course.” 

“Right,” Thomas replies, no doubt imagining the wrath of a furious angel. “Follow me.”

Crowley has to suppress a laugh as they go—he’s walking behind a _priest_ in a _church_ toward a room where they’ll likely be alone. No, his husband most certainly does _not_ know where he is right now, and Crowley will have to make amends later. This new mystery is too pressing, too personal.

As they’re rounding a corner, having left the main chapel, Thomas holds his hand out and Crowley stops. After a glance around, he motions forward again, and they continue on, and Crowley inwardly finds it a bit fun, like they’re in a spy movie. 

Once inside the library, Thomas takes another look around to confirm they’re alone and then shuts the door. He palms his way into a restricted area and quickly returns clutching a leather-bound book, which he sets on a reading podium. 

Crowley steps up to it—black with a gold cross. He looks at Thomas, who has backed away a few paces.

“You should know ... there’s a decent chance this is going to catch fire.”

Thomas nods, no doubt mentally preparing for how he’ll explain that inventory glitch. “I understand.”

With that, Crowley takes up the book. And he exhales when it only feels like a book. Running his hands over the cover, feeling the embossing, flipping through the pages—none of it produces any pain or smoke. 

He can sense relief wafting from the priest beside him. Abruptly, it’s replaced by alarm.

“Would someone care to tell me what the FUCK is going on?” comes Aziraphale’s voice.

Crowley turns to face him, wincing like a child caught stealing sweets. “Hi, sweetheart.”

Aziraphale looks at each of them, and he isn’t smiling. He’s also done a blind teleportation to follow Crowley without knowing where he would end up, which means he woke up alone and worried. _Oops_. 

“My apologies; I assumed he had your blessing,” Thomas says, charitably not mentioning Crowley’s blatant lie.

“He most certainly did not!” Aziraphale responds, turning to face Crowley again. “What are you _doing_ in here? Are your feet—”

“No! No, that’s just it. I’m standing here, and it’s not burning. Thomas was kind enough to find a bible, so I could, erm, experiment.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says with measured calm. “You left me asleep without telling me where you were going, and now you’re in a church.”

Crowley heaves a sigh. “I only meant to go out for a walk, clear my head. I was going to come back with breakfast after. But then ... I picked up a rosary.”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows.

“I expected to see a little smoke and drop it straight away, that’s all. But nothing happened. So, I came in here. That’s the whole of it.”

Aziraphale’s expression softens a bit, but he’s still concerned. Wordlessly, he steps forward and then takes both of Crowley’s hands and inspects his palms, as though they may have burnt without Crowley noticing.

“How could this be possible?” Crowley asks. 

Still grasping Crowley’s hands in his own, Aziraphale looks puzzled, too. A mixture of curiosity, sympathy, and guilt is emanating from the priest in the corner, who has the good sense to say nothing.

“There’s still something thing I haven’t tried,” Crowley says. 

Aziraphale meets his gaze and looks alarmed. “Absolutely not!”

“Aziraphale, I need to know. Just a tiny drop. If it burns, you can heal me straight away.”

Aziraphale sighs and shakes his head. “I suppose there’s no talking you out of it.”

“Aren’t you curious?”

“No!” he says, perhaps with more fury than he intended. He sighs after and looks over at Thomas. “Could you get us ... a _very_ small amount of holy water?”

Thomas practically looks like he’s seen a ghost, visibly swallowing and radiating discomfort. “I can, yes. Just a moment.”

He disappears from the library, shutting the door behind him. In the new privacy, Crowley pulls his husband into his arms.

“I’m glad you’re here. Sorry for vanishing like that.”

Aziraphale sighs into Crowley’s shoulder. “I don’t like this.” 

“I know.”

Thomas returns holding, somewhat hilariously, a cup the size of a shot glass full of holy water, and again shuts the door quietly behind him. Rather than coming over to them, he sets the tiny cup on the reading stand next to the bible and backs away, keeping his cautious distance. But apparently remaining in the room. He’s curious, too, Crowley senses.

Aziraphale steps over to the reading stand and miracles an eye-dropper into his hand, fully determined to commit to the tiniest possible drop. Crowley might laugh under different circumstances. Instead, he pushes up his jacket sleeve and holds out his forearm. 

Aziraphale gives him one last sad look, which Crowley ignores. 

“Is it—?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale nods. “Sufficiently holy.”

“Right then.”

Aziraphale shakes his head and fills the dropper, turning and handing it over instead of dispensing it himself. Crowley takes it, grasping the bulb, and quickly expels a drop onto his skin, tired of waiting. 

It drips over the side of his arm with no effect. He adds more, and it’s the same. 

“Crowley—” Aziraphale starts, apparently in awe. 

He’s interrupted by a _torrent_ of relief pouring out of Thomas, and Crowley realizes belatedly that the little stunt at the restaurant wouldn’t have burned him at all. 

Bewildered, Crowley takes up the shot glass itself and upends it over his arm. It’s harmless. “What does it _mean_?”

“If I may,” comes Thomas’s voice, with a slight catch. “Could it mean that you’ve ... been forgiven?”

Crowley bristles at the question but says nothing, admittedly wondering something similar but avoiding phrasing it outright.

“Crowley...” Aziraphale starts, apparently having an idea. “Let your wings out.”

Crowley blinks. Surely they would have noticed if—but then again, it’s been a while. And none of this makes any fucking sense, anyway. 

So, turning to face the wall, he unfurls his wings in this dimension. And sees black feathers in his peripheral vision. 

“Let’s see,” Aziraphale says, stepping behind him for a better view.

Crowley turns, adjusting his angle. “Anything different?”

“Maybe in need of some grooming, but otherwise...”

“If I may,” Thomas starts again. “I can’t be certain. But from here, they look to have a sort of ... film? Over them? If such a thing is possible.”

Still facing the wall, Crowley rolls his eyes. But Aziraphale is touching his wing, then, and gasps. 

“Oh! Oh, he’s right. It’s ... coming off in my hand. Let me just ... Oh. Crowley. Look!”

Stepping around him, Aziraphale shows him his hand, and what looks like tar covering his fingers. Crowley has no words to respond to that, so Aziraphale moves back into place and continues raking his fingers over his feathers. 

“They’ve shed the black,” Aziraphale is saying. “Just a little pressure and it peels away. That doesn’t hurt at all, does it?”

Crowley shakes his head. “It feels ... nice, actually.”

One of Aziraphale’s hands squeezes his shoulder and then releases again. “Good. They’re beautiful, darling. Gray feathers underneath.”

“Gray. Like a _pigeon_?"

“Not unlike,” Aziraphale says with a tinge of amusement. “Stunning.”

Abruptly, Crowley realizes that he has tears dripping from his eyes, and he’s increasingly glad to have turned away. _Gray_ wings. Not an angel, but ... unfallen? Something in between. Possibly completely unique. Without really meaning to, he smiles.

“There you are, my dear,” Aziraphale says when he’s finished stripping the black film away from Crowley’s feathers. 

He curls his wings forward to get a look at them, himself, and the light gray color is deeply surreal to see. They look ... soft.

Abruptly, Aziraphale is in front of him again, taking his face into his hands, all his previous fretting forgotten. Crowley puts his wings away, drawing his husband closer. They stand for a while, silently embracing.

Afterward, Aziraphale turns to face Thomas in full. “I must express my most heartfelt gratitude for your help today.”

“Oh, no, please,” Thomas says, stumbling over his words. “It’s myself who is grateful... I feel deeply honored to have witnessed this. I only hope my presence didn’t, erm, muddle the moment for you.”

Azirapahle shakes his head. “No, certainly not. I can scarcely think of a better friend to have had by our side.”

Thomas is too moved by that to reply. 

Crowley and Aziraphale take their leave, popping into a cafe for a late breakfast before heading to the archive. Walking hand-in-hand down the busy London block in the autumn air, Crowley feels lighter on his feet than he can ever remember. The events of the morning feel a bit like a dream; the implications at once impossibly large and yet mostly inconsequential. He thinks back to the synthetic sulphur and wonders about that strong reaction, in light of new knowledge. Maybe it is truly more of a Hell _allergy_ , now that he’s something other than a demon. Maybe that’s why the effect was so dramatic. 

“Darling?” Aziraphale says, stopping and turning to him. “Do you _want_ to go in today? We could go home, if you like.”

Crowley takes a breath and shakes his head. “No, let’s go. I’m ready to get back to normal.”

Aziraphale smiles. 

“I must admit,” he says, reaching up to touch Crowley’s cheek, “I’m very glad that your eyes didn’t change.”

Crowley can’t help but laugh now, because of course Aziraphale would say something like that. He pulls him into a happy kiss, and for a moment, thinks of nothing other than how grateful he is to have ended up right here. 

///

**_Epilogue_**

Father Thomas Malcolm is pleasantly surprised when, stepping up to his pulpit one Sunday, he spots in a pew near the back of the church, a familiar pair of heads—one with short, white-blonde hair and the other with long auburn curls. 

He had been planning a standard sermon on the importance of giving thanks for daily comforts, but in this moment, he decides to go a different route. He’s been drafting another on the value of friendship and keeping one’s heart open to new lessons that come at odd times, in unexpected places. Now is the time. 

After the service, as he exchanges pleasantries with parishioners, he notices the two of them from the corner of his eye, waiting patiently for him to finish. 

“My friends,” he says in greeting when he’s finally able. “How ... grateful I am that you chose to attend today.”

“It was such a lovely sermon,” Aziraphale remarks, beaming. “Truly, so well-composed. I’m glad we were here for it.”

Thomas nodded in appreciation. “That means a lot to me.”

For his part, Crowley is standing silently, fingers entwined with his husband’s looking up at the gilded architecture of the altar. It might well be the first time he’s seen a full service in his lifetime, Thomas realizes.

“We were thinking,” Azirapahle goes on, “that perhaps you might like to join us for supper at home?”

“Oh,” is all that Thomas can say in reply. 

Suddenly, Crowley is meeting his gaze. “I’ll be cooking, so you don’t want to miss that.”

“It’s true,” Aziraphale says, eyes alive with pride. “He’s exceptional.”

Thomas smiles. He understands, without asking, that this is a skill Crowley has mastered purely out of love. 

“Well, I’d be delighted.”

“Splendid!” Aziraphale says. 

And then, somehow, he has plans to dine with two immortal beings and enjoy a meal prepared by a former demon. 

The encounter a few weeks prior still weighs heavily on his heart as the single most incredible thing he’s ever witnessed. He feels, with unwavering certainty, that he was meant to meet the two of them, to be present for Crowley’s revelation. Never again will he doubt his faith or question the path he’s chosen for his life. Not after what he’s seen. Not when he’s befriended actual angels. 

Their South Downs cottage is nicely sequestered on its own stretch of cliff overlooking the coastline, and the inside is surprisingly modern and posh—with plush furniture in various colors, plants everywhere, and a panoramic window offering a stunning view. 

“You have a beautiful home,” he says, standing beside Aziraphale in the lounge area.

“Well, thank you!” Aziraphale replies, using a charmingly dated expression. “Come now, I’ll show you my favorite part.”

He follows him around a corner and into an adjacent room that quickly takes his breath away—the walls are lined with shelves and filled with paper books. There’s an ancient-looking secretary desk in pristine condition with a stack of journals and a _typewriter_ sitting on top—Thomas has never seen one in person that was functional. 

“This is my study,” Aziraphale says proudly, as though that fact weren’t screamingly obvious. 

“It’s perfect,” Thomas replies. “I must warn you that I may not be able to leave.”

The whole room is so so cozy and refined—even the window nook is furnished with a cushion and pillows for reading in natural light. His gaze drifts back over to the secretary, a stunning piece, and he notices now that above it, the wall is covered in framed photos. 

Thomas steps closer and finds that each one is of Aziraphale and Crowley together from various points in time. 

“Ah, those are arranged chronologically,” Aziraphale says, stepping closer with him and admiring the photos himself. 

In the earliest ones, Crowley is only barely recognizable—his hair reduced to a red flame atop his head, dressed in head-to-toe black, and eyes obscured by dark glasses. What is recognizable, though, is the clear affection they have for each other—always close together, always happy. Across so many years.

“Well,” Thomas remarks. “ _You_ haven’t changed much, I see.”

Aziraphale smiles at that. “Ah, yes, well... I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to see him dressing so colorfully now.”

At that, Crowley appears in the doorway, dressed casually save for a long necklace, his hair swept up into a neat bun.

“Talking about me?”

“Indee— Oh!” Aziraphale exclaims, clasping his hands together as he turns and sees his husband. “Ah, you’re wearing the new necklace. It looks so lovely, dear.”

“You spoil me,” Crowley says, amused. “Hello, Thomas.”

“Good evening,” Thomas replies.

“Of course _this_ is the first place you bring him,” Crowley quips.

“Oh, I’m glad he did,” Thomas says. “I’m rather envious of it, to be honest.”

He can’t help but feel a bit of tension slip into the interaction now that both of them are there, like he’s still hoping to make a good impression and prove himself. 

“Food’s almost ready,” Crowley says, disappearing from the room as swiftly as he arrived. 

“It smells wonderful, darling!” Aziraphale calls after him. He turns to Thomas just after. “I hope everything will be to your liking. We don’t have many guests, I must confess.”

“Well, I’m honored to count myself among the few.”

Together, Thomas and Aziraphale pass back into the living area, though Thomas is inwardly a little sad to leave the study behind. Now facing the sofa, he notices above it an enormous original painting of a colorful nebula and stops to admire it. He remembers seeing a few similar pieces on display at the archive. 

“Stunning, isn’t it?” Aziraphale asks beside him.

“Remarkably so. Beautiful details.”

“It’s Crowley’s work,” Aziraphale beams. “Would you care to see more? Come with me.”

Thomas is following again before he can properly react. Aziraphale leads him in the opposite direction of the study, so that they pass the kitchen where Crowley is taking something out of the oven. 

“I’m showing him your studio, dear,” Aziraphale calls without pausing. 

“Send something home with him,” comes the response.

Thomas is confused until he steps inside and discovers _dozens_ of similar nebula paintings, including a couple on easels, still in progress. Each one is uniquely gorgeous. 

“They’re amazing,” he says, and Aziraphale beams proudly in response. 

Thomas turns his gaze to the tables there, scattered with so many well-loved art supplies, and feels a swell of affection for this person he once misjudged so harshly. The combined knowledge of Crowley’s origins—that he was present for the creation of the actual stars—and paintings before him, created by someone finally free to celebrate beauty, stirs something in him. 

“He wasn’t joking,” Aziraphale notes, breaking the silence. “You can take one, if you like.”

Thomas swallows. “I don’t know that I could ever possibly choose.”

Aziraphale motions to a medium-sized painting leaning against the wall—a bright burst of orange and cyan against the black, star-speckled background. “That one, perhaps.”

“It’s lovely,” Thomas agrees. “As long as you’re certain.”

“Oh, of course! He paints far more than we could ever hang.”

The gift is so much more than Thomas ever expected, even if it’s easy for Aziraphale and Crowley to give. As they leave the studio and pass into the dining area to take their seats at the table, it sinks in that they see him as a true friend. 

All at once, he’s grateful for the path that’s led him here, mistakes and all. 

///


End file.
